


Come And Get It

by Nitrobot



Category: Transformers: Robots in Disguise (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/M, Flashbacks, Lapdance, Post-Coital Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nitrobot/pseuds/Nitrobot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strongarm never liked having to depend on her parents for anything, so when she passed Iacon Academy's prestigious entry exams with flying colours, she declined all financial support and instead got herself a cozy gig at a strip club in Praxus.<br/>Who knew she'd meet her future sparkmate there as well?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come And Get It

**Author's Note:**

> To those who don't know, I definitely headcanon Wheeljack being Strongarm's dad (as well as Smokescreen being another brother of the Lambo twins), and that comes up a few times in this.  
> If you want an idea as to what stripper!Strongarm's outfit looks like, just imagine something like Junketsu from Kill la Kill (that's certainly what I was doing, at least).

Wheeljack raised his daughter to look after herself, but this probably wasn't what he had in mind. 

At first Strongarm told herself it was just a job, one that hundreds of other femmes before her ended up doing. Just something to get her through the academy training, to stop her from siphoning her parents' funds, even as a fun little distraction from her studies.

She just never expected to like it so much.

The first night was nothing but pure nerves- all her exposed protoform shivering under the neon spotlights, lips clamped together to stop herself biting them. But then came the first cheer, the first hint that she wasn't making a fool of herself, and then the exhilaration of applause adoration from strangers came crashing in before she even started shedding coolant. She earned more credits than the tiny strings of her 'uniform' could carry, and even her subspace strained to hold it all as she raced back to her dorm still light-headed from the intoxication of success.

She could easily afford the next season of tuition costs just from the bounty of that one night, yet she kept going back. Her uniform fit better than any tailored set of battle armour (though the attire itself was clearly made to look like a very skimpy rendition of Iacon police officer plating, ivory and blue standing stark against each other). The thin metal sheets clinging tightly to her chestplates, leaving a whole chunk of cleavage and her abdomen exposed before flaring out into a tiny fan of skirt plates- it was like wearing a teenspark's wet dream. She'd quickly learnt how to walk and spin in her heeled ped-sheathes, using the pillars underneath her feet to secure herself on the stage pole. After every sequence, every cue from her music, she would lean down from the pole and into the feeding frenzy of rabid mechs, drooling and practically overloading just at the sight of her, letting them stuff her armour full of credits.

Just last solar cycle she'd been taught a move to crush a bot's neck between her thighs. How differently would all her weekend admirers would look at her knowing that?

Not that she minded their admiration at all- the thunder of lust clapping away always echoed in her audios during dull lectures, eventually pulling her through them and making her pine for her next performance. She was steadily bankrupting them with just some swiveling hips, aft waves and smoldering glances, they could stare and hoot to their sparks' content as far as she was concerned. 

She never really played favourites with the clientele but, as with all jobs, Strongarm had her fair share of regulars anyway who came either for her specifically or for all the femmes on show. Those ones always paid the most, so naturally they got the most attention, which made them pay even more. It was a nice little feedback loop she'd crafted for herself. She usually didn't notice newcomers unless they went out of their way to make themselves conspicuous.

Safe to say, the twins and their baby brother were the primary coloured definition of conspicuous. 

At first they milled near the back, where the evening gloominess that habitually clung to the corners of every club managed to mask their paint jobs. Then the one with lemon-yellow armour floated away to the bar, glancing over at her while he waited for drinks and she held her aft out over the stage. She forgot about him until he pulled the rest of the family closer, a red-dwarf-star colour twin with a different helm shape but the same look of a natural born troublemaker sauntering beside him. The barely-budded teenspark behind them looked like he was being dragged along, his armour sporting the same colour scheme as her uniform overflowing with credit bunches and practically shaking on top of his protoform. Anyone would have thought strip clubs were Insecticon dens to him. 

Whatever the foundations for the young one's fear, they hovered amidst her sea of horny fans until the music and her shift started to wind down. The pole was getting one last grind out of her when the crimson one walked up, just a smidge more sentient than the rest of the smitten mechs surrounding him. He had the smugness of someone who'd just won a trivial battle that only made sense to mechs (further confirmed by a glance back at his defeated-looking twin). His crest seemed to wilt in the sauna-atmosphere most clubs were home to, but it made him look more cute than weary; faceplate splashed with neon and denta showing dimly through a smirk.

"Hey, sweetspark!" he called up, leaning his servos down on the stage and getting himself a not-so-subtle front row seat to gazing at her aft. It was hard to not blush at it, the sudden intimacy of a close up leering from a mech with a hopefulness glowing from his optics. With everyone else they were too far away to see just how much they wanted to frag her. "You do private shows?"

Strongarm was allowed to, but she hadn't found any mechs worth the extra work. She quirked an eyeridge, untangled herself from the pole with a deliberate languidness. A new round of groans rippled through the audience as she descended, making room for the next show of the night to make her debut. Either they were more disciplined than she thought or she radiated enough heat that no-one reached out to grope her now that she wasn't writhing above them. As she looked over him there was a flicker of the same apprehension dripping off the young mech across this one's faceplate, and she knew she hadn't imagined the falter of his enduring smirk when her optics swept back over it. Analysis; he was hot, he was a punk, and he was terrified of her. Perfect. 

"Depends on what the show is," she answered, glad for the absence of music so she wouldn't need to bellow over the bass.

The red mech widened his grin, only making his anxiety more obvious by the klick. "It's our little brother's graduation tomorrow." He flicked a servo over his shoulder to his companions waiting distantly behind him; Lemon still sour, Blue still frozen solid despite the swamp-warmth. "He's nervous as the Pit, so he'd really appreciate if you helped him relax..."

Baby Blue's first strip club, from the looks of it. Strongarm was a tad too self-righteous to get any joy out of scarring a mech at least four stellar cycles younger than her. She turned attention back to the older brother, the 'mature' one, giving him another once over. She'd have much more fun with him, anyway. 

"Are you sure _you_ aren't the nervous one?" The music had picked itself up again, blaring against audios even with the speakers hidden away backstage, so Strongarm pushed herself in close so he could hear her purr. 

The confident veneer was stripped away in a nanoklick either when he realised she was right, or when he realised how close her hand on his thigh was to his codpiece. 

"What's your name, handsome?" she asked, easily steering him into one of the more lonelier nooks, the dark places where a femme could earn a whole vorn's pay in a breem (or less, depending on how excited her mech got). 

He was too busy struggling not to stumble backwards over his own peds to speak. "Uh... uh, S-Sideswipe..." The back of his legs collided with a plush chair, nothing but pillows of air to stop him tumbling backwards into its thick embrace. He sprawled effortlessly in his seat, one leg hanging haphazardly over a servorest, inviting her right in. 

One thing all femmes in Strongarm's field learned to do was driving a mech haywire without even touching him; mingling touches of frazzling EM fields, the naked heat of her protoform against the flimsy guard of his armour, stares that could turn gestalts into molten steel and, the most important weapon in any stripper's arsenal, her fine-tuned vocaliser. 

"Be a good boy, and I'll give you the best show of your life." All the proof of her promise was in her hips, swaying idly and locked in his wide gaze as he nodded passionately, switching his focus to over her shoulder when she started crawling on top of him.

"A show... just for me?"

Strongarm followed the center of his gaze behind her shoulder, to his huddled brothers wondering what the Pit was happening over there. The youngling actually looked quite disappointed. She turned her helm back and blocked the line of sight with her helm as she dangled it close to his. "I think they'll be fine without you for a little while, Sides." She enjoyed coaxing the irresponsibility out of him, a special kind of obliviousness to everything that wasn't coolant-drenched grey protoform and blue lips near his neck. Student-Strongarm would have never let him abandon the others, but then again student-Strongarm also wouldn't be straddling him and daring his codpiece to thump against her. 

It was a very welcome freedom, not having to follow any rules for once. The rules were only in place for the clients, and she could bend and twist and snap them at will. 

The forefront rule was 'no hands on the merchandise', of course. In this case, the merchandise was her aft shaking itself just above his hips, not quite grinding against them. His lips were about to break from how hard his denta bit them, struggling to keep his servos by his side or just barely ghosting over the back of her thighs. You could shock a mech into stasis, pry his denta out or crush his optics within their sockets, but there was no worse torture than showing off something they couldn't have. 

"For ten credits, you can touch it all you want." Strongarm knew she could have charged a lot more, but she was more interested in his awestruck giddiness than how much she could drain his subspace. 

Frantically digging in his subspace, Sideswipe pulled out the credits and paused, trying to figure out where they went. Strongarm's hands were on her knees, giving her more support as she bent over in front of him, so the only place was the very limited space in her armour strings.

He slipped the money in with clammy digits, laboured breaths wrecking his vents, before letting his hand glide down the perfect curve of her back...

 

"And that's when Wheeljack kicked the front door in and threatened to use my helm as a lob-ball if I didn't get my hands off your aft," Sideswipe recalled his first near-death experience with his sire-in-law, as always in perfect detail. Their first meeting was their most popular post-frag pre-recharge bedtime story, often leaving them exhausted from laughter but not too aroused that they couldn't sleep. 

"Threatened to pull me out of the academy before he remembered he met my carrier in a strip club," Strongarm added into the crook of his servo, pulling his other one tight around her waist.

Sideswipe's embrace stiffened, and he gave a raised-eyeridge look down at her. "He told me he met her in a bar."

"He also told you you'd make a good sire, but as soon as you left he started pulling up adoption papers 'just in case'," Strongarm informed him, promptly nuzzling herself back into his chest.

"...Ouch." The hurt in his tone was hardly new; revelations like that came every day because Sideswipe was always either too optimistic or too naive to know how much Wheeljack hated him, despite Strongarm's endless efforts. Was there ever a sire who liked a mech that was fragging his daughter?

As always, Strongarm steered the whispers away from her sire. "I never did ask... why did Sunstreaker look so pissed at you?"

"We played Comet, Film, Scissors for who'd get to go up and ask you. I won with Comet." She felt him shrug and heard the very at-home smugness awakening in his voice. Strongarm rolled her optics- he always went with Comet. 

"So if things went differently I'd be cozying up to yellow armour right now?" she asked, running a digit idly down a protoform gap.

"Well, knowing Sunny, you'd be cozying up to no armour." They both snorted laughter as Sideswipe rolled himself over to face her. His own digits like to stroke her helm, outlining her yellow crest. "Speaking of which, you, uh... wouldn't happen to have that... outfit you wore still lying around anywhere, would you?"

Strongarm pulled her helm up from his chest, copying his raised-eyeridge look for herself complete with his trademark smirk. "Feeling a little nostalgic, Sides?"

"That's not the word I'd use..." 

Even as they were laughing, Strongarm was already planning how to sneak the outfit out of her room back at Wheeljack's Wrecker base.


End file.
